Excerpt fromDeathWatch

The Director General’s secretary appeared in robe and slippers at Grey’s flat at 1:00 a.m. Grey held the door open for him but he remained in the hallway. “Get dressed, Commander. A car is waiting downstairs to take you to London. Someone from Special Branch will meet you there. He’ll explain what you need to do.”

Urgent missions in the middle of the night were not unusual for MI6 Commander Grey Hamilton, but the secretary’s unusual lack of information sent his imagination soaring. Normally the summons resulted from a mission he was already involved in, but he was currently between assignments.

Whatever the problem, it was important enough for someone to send a car all the way from London to Buckinghamshire to fetch him.

Rain pounded a constant drum beat on the roof of the ancient Austin as he and the driver made their way through the darkness into London. The windscreen wipers fought valiantly against the downpour, and he struggled to find familiar landmarks. The Blitz had leveled most of the recognizable London streets and buildings, leaving a sprawling mass of jagged rubble in their stead. It was pitch-black and bone-chilling cold, and the automobile’s heater blew air almost as frigid as that outside. He glanced over at the WPC at the wheel, who had introduced herself as Molly Hixs, a middle-aged matron with tightly-permed red curls. She effortlessly avoided road cavities and ruins despite the blackout.

“Bloody night, wot, sir?”

“The only good thing about this weather, Mrs. Hixs, is that the limited visibility keeps the Luftwaffe at home,” he agreed.

“Too right ‘bout that, Commander, and call me Molly, sir.”

With most of the men ages sixteen to sixty in the service, courageous ladies served in the Women’s Police Corp, filling a desperate need at the Yard and other vital interests in England’s war efforts.

“Where are you taking me, Molly?”

She gave a soft chuckle. “Can’t say, sir. Was told to keep me lips zipped.”

Bristol Arms ApartmentsLondon, England

After a little more than two hours, the driver shifted gears and nosed the Austin to the curb in front of an address Grey knew intimately. It was an exclusive apartment building on the east side of Piccadilly that had escaped Jerries’ bombs. It was the home of his former fiancée. The flats stood within walking distance of his old office at St. James Place before they moved him to Bletchley Park.

He tugged down the brim of his fedora and flipped up his Mackintosh’s collar before he opened the car door. A blast of wind and icy rain hit him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He quickly leaned back into the car and spoke to the driver. “Will you be around to take me home later, Molly?”

She smiled and nodded. “I’ll be ‘ere when you need me, sir.”

Under the awning entrance, a grizzled old soldier wearing his ragged, too-thin First World War uniform stepped towards him. “Don’t have a fag ye can spare do ye, guv’na?”

“Sorry, my friend. I don’t smoke.” He pulled a five-pound note from his pocket and handed it to the old warrior. “See if you can find something warm to eat and drink.”

“Thank you kindly, guv’na.” A weary smile settled on his whiskered face as he stuffed the money in his trousers and hurried away into the rain-soaked darkness. He would probably head for the nearest pub, but he could get a bite to eat to go with his ale.

A uniformed porter held open the door. “Sorry about that, sir. We try to keep him away, but it’s near impossible, and on a night like this I feel right sorry for the old bugger.”

“No need to apologize; no harm done.” Grey hurried into the lobby’s warmth. Cold weather had awakened the pain of his leg injury. Fortunately, the heat would loosen up the stiff muscles.

“Are you Commander Hamilton, sir?” the porter asked.

Grey nodded.

“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the office to the left. He said to tell you just to knock when you arrived.”

The familiar marble corridor was dotted with potted ferns. Huge oil paintings in gilded frames hung on the walls in muted shades of blue and gold that blended with the carpet runner. Before the war this had been the premier address for young aristocrats, but the old girl was looking a little worse for wear.

He strode to the door the porter had indicated, and knocked. A cultured masculine voice invited him to enter.

Grey closed the door behind him and studied the man, who stood and offered his hand. He was tall and lean, tending toward the frail side, his skin pale, brown hair neatly brushed, with light blue eyes. Near Grey’s own age of thirty-three, the cuffs of his double-breasted pinstriped suit were slightly frayed but still in fair condition. Tailors and fabric were in short supply in Britain, and, like everything else, were rationed. The man extended his hand. “Nigel Lewis, Special Branch, and you are Commander Hamilton, I presume.”

“Yes,” Grey said.

“Have a seat, Commander, and I’ll tell you why you’ve been sent here.” He waited until Grey was seated before he continued. “There’s been a murder upstairs, apartment 3C. She’s French, her name is Jacky Vidal, strangled with her scarf. She worked at Bletchley Park.”

Grey immediately understood why he was here. He wasn’t a police inspector, but anything connected to the Government Code and Cypher School required the attention of Military Intelligence.

The victim was a cryptanalyst at GC&CS. The Ultra program was the best-kept secret in England, and it was imperative that it stay that way. Unless, of course, Miss Vidal had already leaked their secret to the wrong people. Lewis probably didn’t even have security clearance. Few people outside of Bletchley Park did.

The possibility the Nazis knew their secrets would be catastrophic. If Germany discovered Enigma had been broken, they would change the codes. The loss of information from German radio and tele-printer communications would be disastrous for Military Intelligence. They depended heavily on data of troop and ship movements from intercepted messages. Even worse, Germany wouldn’t change the code but would instead use Enigma to send false information.Lewis handed him a file. “This is all we have on Jacky Vidal and Grace Sullivan.”

“Who’s Sullivan?”

“She found the body, and also works at GC&CS. They were on scheduled leave this week.”

Grey let his gaze sweep the room. “Is Vidal from a wealthy family? I know the cost of a flat here and I also know what those women earn.”

Lewis shook his head. “That information isn’t in her personnel records. It’ll be your job to find out where the money came from.”

“Has Scotland Yard arrived?”

Lewis nodded. “Yes, an hour ago. Miss Sullivan had her head about her. She called Commander Dennison at the Park right after she determined Miss Vidal was dead. He notified the Director General, who called Special Branch. We made the call to the Yard. Inspector Milford has been assigned to the case.”

“Aubrey Milford?” Grey asked.

“Yes, I believe that’s his name. Do you know him?”

“We were at Eton together. He’s a good man.”

Lewis stood, ending the meeting. “I was instructed to tell you that your charge is to find out if Miss Vidal’s murder has anything to do with GC&CS, and if she compromised the operation in any way. I don’t have to tell you how important that is, Commander.”

He was right. Grey knew that all too well.

As he turned to leave, Lewis stopped him. “I’ve arranged for Inspector Milford to work with you. If this proves to be just a random murder, he will take over at that point.”

“Understood.” Grey closed the door behind him and stepped to the lift. The door stood open and the operator, a short, plump girl with a friendly smile, straightened her posture when he approached then followed him inside.

She took him to the third floor without asking where he wanted to go. He checked his pocket watch. At four-thirty in the morning, number three was likely the only floor seeing any activity. Sane people were still snuggled into their warm beds.

The door to 3C was open. In a small alcove that smelled of Chanel No. 5. Aubrey Milford stood with a gray-haired man in a black suit holding a medical bag. Grey assumed he was the Home Office pathologist.

Aubrey hadn’t changed a lot since university. His face had lost its boyish softness and he’d matured into a polished gentleman with film-star good looks. His green eyes and light brown hair revealed none of his Jewish lineage. Grey was one of very few people aware he had been adopted. His English parents deliberately kept his ethnicity secret. Almost as much anti-Semitism existed in the English upper classes as there was in Germany.

The Inspector waved Grey over, beamed, and gave his hand a firm squeeze. “It’s been a long time, Grey. Lewis told me you were on your way.” Milford introduced his companion as Dr. Gordon Bruce, then said, “Dr. Bruce was about to give me some idea as to the time of death.”

“Aye, she’s been in full rigor, and from the condition of the body she hasn’t been dead long. My guess would be the lass died aboot three to four hours ago, as the rigor is relaxing somewhat. If yer through here, Inspector, I’ll take her on to the university for autopsy.”

“By all means, Doctor. I’ll be in touch with you later.”

Through the bedroom doorway, Grey watched as two men transferred the silk-nightgown- clad body of the young woman from the bed onto a gurney and covered it with white sheets.

Grey watched the gurney disappear into the hallway and glanced at Milford. “She’s African?”

“Mixed, which accounts for her light coloring. Her father was French, her mother an African tribal princess, I’m told.” Milford gave a frustrated shake of his head. “It’s a bloody shame. She was a beautiful girl. Too young to meet such a tragic end.”

Milford heaved a deep breath and seemed to collect himself. He nodded at a man with a camera strapped to his shoulder. “He’s the Special Branch photographer and is just finishing up. He has snapped photos of the bedroom and the body. We have also collected the other evidence from the flat. I’ll see you have access to everything. Would you like to speak to the young woman who found the body?”

“Yes, if she’s still available. Sullivan is Irish, I take it?”

“She’s American,” the Inspector said, and motioned for Grey to go first through the doorway. “Her apartment is just down the corridor.”

He chuckled. “My sergeant has been quite beside himself in her presence. Says she reminds him of a Swedish film star whose name he can’t recall. I say, if I weren’t an engaged man, I would get in queue for that young lady’s hand.”Aubrey hadn’t changed in the years since Grey last saw him—still a Lothario. Grey’s attention was also turned to Miss Sullivan, but for a different reason. He almost voiced the first thoughts that came to mind. How was it that an American had been allowed to work at England’s top-secret code-breaking facility? And why would a young American girl be in war-torn England at all? Indeed. These were questions he intended to put directly to Miss Sullivan.

They made their way down a long corridor to 3B, and Milford rang the bell.

The door opened and the Inspector stepped forward. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Sullivan, but we have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Inspector. I wasn’t sure you would return tonight, or should I say this morning. But I couldn’t sleep anyway. Please come in.”

She stepped aside for them to enter, and Grey had his first look at Grace Sullivan. He immediately knew the actress whose name the sergeant couldn’t remember. Cynthia, his fiancée, had lured him into seeing Intermezzo, an American film starring Ingrid Bergman, and Miss Sullivan had the same fresh-faced natural beauty of the star.

She was of average height, probably five-feet-five-inches. She wore a green wool dressing gown that managed to look both warm and elegant at the same time. Dark blond hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders, and her deep sapphire eyes appeared more shocked than grief-stricken. That wasn’t unusual. People were often first traumatized by violent death. The grief would come later.

“This is Commander Grey Hamilton, Miss Sullivan. Because of Miss Vidal’s connection to Bletchley Park, he is working closely with Scotland Yard.” Milford sniffed the air. “Good heavens, is that real coffee I smell? You must have a good friend in the black market.”

Her lips formed a slight smile. “No, just a mother in America who sends care packages regularly. Would you like some? I just made a fresh pot.”

“I would love it,” Milford said without embarrassment. “The ersatz barleycorn substitute at the Yard is ghastly.”

She led them into the small kitchen. “Have a seat while I get the coffee. We can talk in here.”

Grey watched the young woman move into the kitchen, her poise obviously shaken by the death of her friend. She was acting the gracious hostess, but the sadness in her eyes said she would rather be elsewhere.

A few moments later, she returned, placed a service tray on the table, and poured three cups.

Milford took a long sip from his cup and flashed her a dashing smile. “And you have cream and sugar. It’s a wonder your pantry hasn’t been plundered by your neighbors.”

“It isn’t real cream, just evaporated milk, but it’s better than nothing.” She gave a half-hearted smile. “There does seem to be a telegraph system in the building. When a package arrives from home, I’m suddenly the most popular woman in the complex.”

“God bless mothers,” Grey said, not trying to hide the cynicism. He was tired and he wanted to get down to the business at hand. “How long have you been at Bletchley Park, Miss Sullivan?”

“A little over a year.”

Milford took out his notebook. Grey didn’t need to take notes; he had total recall, a blessing and a curse in his profession.

“Tell us when and how it is that you found Miss Vidal’s body,” Grey said.

“I’d gone out to dinner with a friend, and when I returned I found a note asking me to come see her, no matter what time I came in. I thought it must be important. When I arrive at the apartment I went right over. I knocked on the door, and when she didn’t answer I went in. The door wasn’t locked and the lights were on.” She stopped and bit at her lower lip. “That’s when I found her . . .”

“Is it normal for you to walk into Miss Vidal’s home if she doesn’t answer the door?” Grey asked.

“Yes, if the door wasn’t locked it meant she was home alone. We were very informal.”

Grey finished the coffee and set the cup aside. “Do you still have the note, and have you any idea why she sent it?”

She reached into the pocket of her robe, withdrew a folded note written on quality stationery, and passed it across the table to him. “I have no idea what she wanted. It wasn’t like her to leave a note. That’s why I thought it important.”“Give me the name of your dinner date. It’s just routine, but we’ll need to confirm it.”

She retrieved a notepad from a nearby desk and wrote down the name. “He works at Bletchley also. I’ll spell his name for you. He’s Polish.”

“How well did you know Jacky Vidal?” Grey folded the papers and passed them to Milford.

Her voice dropped to a low pitch and she blinked twice before answering. “I met her at work. We discovered we lived in the same building. Our leave rotations were scheduled together and we became friends. She was gifted, kind, and fun-loving.” Her grip tightened on the cup handle and she stared down into the liquid as if seeing the face of her friend. “I’ll miss her.”

“Did she have any special suitors you are aware of?”

She took a sip and gazed at him over the cup’s rim. “She had many men friends, but only two she saw regularly. A man she called Old Foss, a nickname I think, and an RAF lieutenant, Geoffrey Whitman. I met the lieutenant a few months ago, and I met Old Foss once in the elevator as they were going out.”

“How did she afford to live here?”

“I’m unsure of her family’s financial position . . .” She paused for a moment, staring at the blackout curtains covering the French doors. “I suppose you’ll find out anyway. Her friend, Old Foss, paid for the apartment.”

Grey leaned back in his chair and studied her face. “You met this ‘Old Foss’?”

She gave a slight nod. “Only the brief encounter in the elevator.”

“Can you give us a description?” Milford asked.

“Tall, about six-feet, blue eyes, dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples.” She hesitated, apparently collecting her thoughts, then continued. “I would guess he was early to mid-forties. Not handsome like the lieutenant, but quite distinguished and extremely well-dressed.”

Milford tapped his pencil on his notebook. “Anything else you can tell us about Jacky Vidal?”

“She was beautiful, brilliant, and had a lovely French accent.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Her parents shipped her to England to finish college when Hitler began conquering one European country after another. Her father lived through one German occupation and didn’t want that to happen to Jacky.”

Grey didn’t try to mask his suspicious nature when he spoke. “Do you have a ‘friend’, Miss Sullivan? Is that how you afford to live here?”

Aubrey’s face tensed and he glared at Grey, but he didn’t speak.

She lifted her chin and gave him a frosty glare. “No, Commander, I have a wealthy father.”

Grey stood and pulled Aubrey aside, speaking in a hushed whisper. “You don’t have security clearance for the questions I need to ask Miss Sullivan about her work. I’ll need to speak to her in private for a few minutes. I’ll meet you outside shortly.”

Milford nodded and spoke to the young woman. “Thanks for the coffee. It was a wonderful change from the usual war-brew. I have things to tie up next door. When you are finished with the Commander, I would like you to walk through Miss Vidal’s flat and see if you notice anything missing. I know it’s bad form to ask at this late hour, but it might be important.”

“Of course,” she said.

The door clicked as Milford left, and Grey returned to his seat across from Miss Sullivan. “Do you work with Joan Clarke in Hut 8?” Grey asked.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Before I answer any questions about my work, Commander, I need to see some identification. I had to sign a secrecy document to work on Ultra. Discussing my job with unauthorized personnel is considered treason. Your title is Commander, yet you’re not in uniform.”

Grey placed his credentials on the table. “I’m no longer in the Royal Navy, Miss Sullivan. I’m with MI6. We occupy the top floor at Bletchley Mansion. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other.”

She scrutinized his credentials, then nodded and shoved them back to him. “I work in Cottage 3 with Alan Turing, among others, although I’m what they call a floater. I go wherever I’m needed.”

He tried to hide his surprise. Turing’s team was the top echelon of the project.

British Intelligence had been provided a copy of a prospectus written by the military attaché at the American Embassy in Berlin. In October of 1923, the attaché witnessed a demonstration with a working model of Enigma. The man who had demonstrated the machine was Arthur Scherbius, the Berlin engineer who had assumed the patents from its inventor, Hugo Koch. Enclosed in the report about the Enigma machine, the prospectus claimed it could produce 22 billion different code combinations. “If one man worked continuously day and night and tried a different cipher-key every minute,” the prospectus said, “it would take him 42,000 years to exhaust all combination possibilities.”

England had obtained the machine, code-named Ultra, but not the key that would unlock the codes. Alan Turing was designing a computer to do just that. Until then, hundreds of men and women worked around the clock to find a thousand needles in a thousand haystacks.

“No offense, Miss Sullivan, but how is it that you, a young woman . . . I’m guessing you’re about twenty-one . . . an American . . . was allowed to join some of the finest minds in England?”

“I’m twenty-three. My mother is English. I was born at Moorhead Manor, my aunt’s home near Sandringham, Norfolk. I have dual citizenship.

“I met Commander Dennison at one of my aunt’s dinner parties. After listening to her rave about my linguistic talents, he invited me to test for the project. I have two God-given gifts that Commander Dennison thought would be an asset. Namely, a gift for languages, I speak six, and a talent for solving puzzles. I tested and he offered me a position on the team.”

“How nice for you.”

“You obviously haven’t worked on Ultra, Commander.”

CHAPTER 2

Bristol Arms ApartmentsLondon, England

After completing the interview, Grey walked Grace next door and turned her over to Aubrey, but continued to observe her from a distance.

She strolled through the apartment until she reached the bedroom. An ornate black lacquered jewelry box sat on the dresser. After opening the lid and studying the contents, she closed it softly. “Her jewelry seems to be untouched. Old Foss gave her an expensive necklace of matched pearls that are still here. Most of the other items are costume jewelry.”

She opened the armoire and glanced at the clothes and shoes arranged in neat order, by color and style. She reached down and picked up a pair of evening shoes with rhinestone clips. A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. “She bought these yesterday.” Her voice became whisper soft, “She’ll never have a chance to wear them now.”

Grace glanced up and saw him watching her, and abruptly turned and headed back to the entrance. “That’s odd,” she said, and stopped at a small table by the door that led into the hallway.

“What’s odd?” Milford asked.

“It’s probably nothing.” She glanced down at the carpet below the table. “But Jacky had a wooden coin with a four-leaf clover engraved on it that she kept in a bowl by the door. Her grandfather carved it and gave it to her as a talisman. She rubbed it each time she came in or went out. It was superstition, of course, but she swore by it. Did you collect it as evidence?”

Milford shook his head. “I didn’t see it, but it’s possible they bagged it for some reason.”

He walked Grace back to 3B and returned to Grey’s side and rounded on him. “Are you barking bloody mad? You practically called that young woman a tart in her own home.”

Grey glowered at him. “I have no patience with the hordes of rich young women who have flooded England looking to marry titles. Ever since Wallis Simpson caught the big fish, our shores have been inundated with these obnoxious females. Even the war hasn’t stopped them.”

“How did you arrive at the conclusion she is title-hunting?” Milford asked, his face flushed. “What I saw and heard was a woman putting her life at some risk for a king and country to whom and to which she owes no allegiance.”

Grey slipped into his overcoat. “We only have her word for being accepted at Bletchley Park. It is quite possible Dennison brought her on board as an ornament to keep the troops from getting bored. And she isn’t exactly suffering with her boxed goodies from America. Did you see the two oranges in the fruit bowl? There are English children who have never seen an orange, must less eaten one.”

They stepped into the lift and the operator gave him a sideways glance, obviously having overheard his last remarks. “Miss Grace is very generous with her American food. She gives the charwoman’s two children fruit from time to time, but the poor woman sent them to the country to escape the bombs.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I wouldn’t mind having an orange meself.”

Milford sent him a smug look and turned his attention to the young woman. He jotted down her name from the badge on her uniform. “Tilly, do you recall taking any strangers up last night? Anyone you hadn’t seen before?”

“No, sir, just the tenants.”

“How about regular visitors to 3C? Would you recognize them?” Grey asked.

“When I take folks up, I don’t always know who they’re going to see. But Miss Jacky had a couple of regular visitors she went out with when she was in town. A proper toff, with his top hat and evening clothes, and a nice RAF lieutenant.”

“Did you take either of them up last night?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know the name of this toff?” Milford asked.

“No, sir. They don’t give their names, mostly just ignore me. But he did visit her regular.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Can you give me a description? Age and height?”

“’A little shorter than you, sir,” she smiled. “Right elegant, he was, but old enough to be her father.”

Milford jotted down the information and placed the notebook back in his pocket. “Is this the only lift?”

She shook her head vigorously, making her dark curls bounce. “There’s one in back for deliveries but the tenants don’t use it, and there are stairs in the lobby and in the back.”

Grey retrieved a card from inside his jacket and gave it to her. “If either gentleman returns, Tilly, please give me a call right away.”

The lift slowed, gave a little bounce as it reached ground level, then Tilly opened the gate. Milford heaved a great breath and placed his hand on Grey’s shoulder. “Look, my friend, you’re letting your personal disappointments cloud your professional judgement. You have unlimited access to the Park. Check out Miss Sullivan and prove or disprove your assumptions.”

Milford removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with his Zippo, and took a long draw. His anger seemed to regain traction. “You may think your title gives you the right to be rude to mere mortals. However, if we’re going to work together, bear in mind that I have a superior who would frown upon my having taken part in harassing that young woman.”

Grey didn’t respond right away. He buttoned his coat and put on his hat. The trek to the lobby gave him time to regain his composure, and a twinge of guilt unsettled him. Milford was right. He’d been unreasonably rude without cause. Perhaps because he’d found Grace Sullivan attractive and his defenses were raised.

He gave himself a shake. He’d never made excuses for his behavior and he wouldn’t start now. “You’re absolutely right, Aubrey. I’ll apologize the next time I see Miss Sullivan, if there is a next time.”

His contrition seemed to mollify his friend. “Where will you be staying while you’re in London?”

Grey had given it some thought on the drive in. “My mother’s flat. I’ll be there until we decide what our next moves should be. Have you interviewed the other residents?”

Milford nodded. “Two constables talked to them. The interview cards will be available later today. Get some sleep and I’ll drop by tomorrow. I’ll send Molly home and drive you to your mum’s flat.”

A cold veil of misty rain settled over them as they strode to Milford’s motor car. The fog concealed the bombed-out buildings shells. He leaned back against the car seat, shoved his hat down over his eyes, and napped until they reached the flat.

***

The lock clicked softly as Grace Sullivan closed the door behind the Commander. He and the Inspector were handsome men, almost exact opposites, one dark and the other fair.

The Commander was the taller of the two, muscular and trim, probably because of his military training, with blue eyes and sandy blond hair. Although she’d never met or even seen the Commander at Bletchley Park, she’d heard of him. The women there often remarked about the handsome Commander and how he paid them no attention whatsoever.His demeanor troubled her. He’d taken an almost instant dislike of her for no apparent reason. Surely, he didn’t think she’d been involved in Jacky’s murder.

The hostility hadn’t been there initially. When he first arrived, she’d caught a brief glimpse of pain in his eyes, soon replaced with a chill in his attitude and a harsh tone, seemingly intent on insulting her.

Perhaps she was being overly sensitive. He and the inspector must often deal with women in Jacky’s circumstances. The war brought out the worst or the best in people. Some determined to experience every thrill life had to offer because of the future’s uncertainty. While others dug in and made the best of things, offering whatever service they had to win this monumental clash between good and evil.

Against her families wishes, she’d escaped to England, to avoid a painful episode she couldn’t share with her father. She’d hoped to be of some help to Great Britain in their struggle.

Except for the chance meeting with Commander Dennison, she might have become a nurse’s aide. When she landed at Bletchley Park, it felt right. The constant pressure to decode intercepted enemy messages left her nerves raw and bleeding. Failure meant the loss of pilots and seamen. She, and others like her, were saving lives literally by the hour. That’s why she came here. To make a difference in this horrid war.

Visions of Jacky, the terrible card cheat, laughing when she was caught, her out-of-tune voice belting out the latest hit songs, had been erased forever by the strangled body in her bedroom. Grace shivered at the terror her friend must have felt in the last minutes of her life. Vibrant and alive, the stone face of the corpse seemed to belong to someone other than Jacky Vidal.

Grace pushed the horror away and strolled back into the kitchen. She washed the dirty cups and saucers, then put them away. The long day and shock of Jacky’s death finally caught up to her. The softness of her bed called, but sleep eluded her.

Finally, limbs weighted by exhaustion, she doused the lights and slipped between the warm flannel sheets. Before sleep claimed her, she decided to call Aunt Edie later in the day. She didn’t want to be alone. Tomorrow she would pay her aunt a visit. Spending the last five days of her leave in London with Jacky gone was out of the question.

Moorhead ManorOutside London

Henry, Aunt Edie’s chauffeur, arrived later that afternoon in her aunt’s old Rolls Royce. Her father had once laughingly told Grace there was no such thing as an old Rolls. Regardless, the British were finding vehicles of all kinds, parts, and petrol in short supply. Automobile factories were now busy turning out planes and bombs.

With the shortage of petrol, sending her driver had been a gracious gesture by her aunt. Grace didn’t drive in England, and navigating the Underground was out of the question.

People who’d lost their homes in the air raids had moved into the tubes. Criminals and sanitation problems were rampant there.

She wondered if the isolationists back home realized the desperate situation England faced. Surely if they knew, they would back President Roosevelt’s efforts to send the planes and ships Britain so badly needed.

After stowing her bags in the boot, Henry opened the car door for her. With his arthritis, she felt she should be opening doors for him, but he insisted on doing his duty. After she was seated, she slid back the window between them. “How are things at the Manor, Henry?”

He chuckled. “Your aunt is in a proper dither, complaining about the lack of servants. Wants to turn the Manor into a convalescence home for soldiers and refugees… them that’s well enough to leave the hospital, but too sick to live by themselves. She don’t rightly know where she would find food and the folks to help care for ‘em. There’s only me, Cook, and Betty left.”

After the two-hour drive from the city, the car swung through the gates at Moorhead Manor, and Grace smiled. The great old mansion was a welcome sight, though a little ragged these days with its unkempt grounds. Winter had turned the grass brown, and the flower beds hadn’t been prepared for spring. Ivy still covered the stately brick walls, and a few tiles were missing from the roof. Still, the three floors and multiple wings could house a lot of invalids.Henry deposited her bags in the foyer as Aunt Edie drew Grace into a breath-squeezing hug.

“It’s good to see you. How is it those slave-drivers let you leave the Park? Whatever their reason, I’m glad you’re here.”

With her light brown hair only slightly frosted with white, Aunt Edie was still an attractive woman, although slightly pigeon-breasted. Her bearing was as graceful and elegant as ever. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take your bags up to your room. Henry’s legs won’t let him climb the stairs these days,” she rattled on without taking a breath. “The servant crisis is no better. The house is falling apart, too big for Betty to take care of alone. Servants young enough have gone off to war and those too old to fight are working in factories or elsewhere.” She shook her head sadly. “And we’re losing more civilians than soldiers in these horrible air raids.”

“I can take care of my bags. Let me drop them in my room and I’ll be right down.” Grace quickly stowed her two pieces of luggage and hurried back downstairs.

“You look pale and distracted, my dear. Are you ill? It’s almost dinner time, or I would have Cook make tea. Bless her, she would do it, but it would be an imposition while she’s preparing dinner, and Lady Amherst is dining with us tonight. Have you met her?”

“The name isn’t familiar.”

Her aunt sat on the sofa beside Grace and took her hand. “Your eyes are sad. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

A soft rain pattered against the windows as Grace told her aunt about Jacky Vidal’s death.

“Oh, Grace. How horrible for you. Is that why you decided to pay me a visit?”

“After what happened, I didn’t want to be alone at the apartment. I hope you don’t mind my hasty arrival.”

“Actually, I think you should move in here with me. Your father would kill me if he knew I let you live in an apartment where a killer is running loose.”

Grace gave a shaky laugh. “No killer is running loose, Aunt Edie. The authorities have it all well in hand.” At least, she hoped so.

“For your sake, I hope you’re right. Speaking of your father, I received a letter from your mum.” She withdrew a thick envelope from a basket on the end table and handed it to Grace. “It took more than a month to get here, but I guess I should be glad it arrived at all. Nora sent pictures of your sister’s wedding and a copy of the society page’s coverage of the nuptials. Have you seen them? Beth and Harrison make quite a handsome couple.”

Sifting through the photographs allowed memories to emerge that Grace didn’t want to revisit. “The apartment manager is probably holding a letter for me. He keeps my mail in his office while I’m away. I just haven’t picked up the post since I returned to London. I’m glad the wedding went off well for them.”

Grace handed the packet to her aunt, who tossed it back into the basket.

“Weren’t you and Harrison an item a few years ago? Your mother tells me he was quite a catch, one of the most eligible bachelors in Washington. What happened?”

“That was a long time ago, Aunt Edie. It just didn’t work out.” She didn’t want to give her aunt the details of her broken engagement. The betrayal of Harrison and her sister still stung.

Her aunt’s dark eyes studied her face for a moment. “I had wanted you to meet Lady Amherst’s son, but that’s probably a bad idea. He’s such a misogynist, although you can’t say he doesn’t have good reason. Too bad he dislikes women. He’s really charming, and very handsome.”

Grace picked up a dress pattern book from the coffee table. Hopefully her aunt hadn’t decided to become her own dressmaker. She failed miserably at needlepoint. “Do you mean he’s …?”

“No, no. He’s totally masculine. He was involved in quite a scandal a year ago. His fiancée was murdered by a jealous wife. She walked in on her husband in bed with Lord Amherst’s intended. The wife shot and killed them both. Then there was his mother.”

“Lady Amherst? What about her?” Grace asked.

Edie lifted a penciled eyebrow and a shadow crossed her face. “You are uninformed, aren’t you? Lady Amherst is one of my oldest and dearest friends, but she’s quite notorious. She was one of Prince Edward’s paramours before he met and married Wallis Simpson. He was the Duke of Windsor when Vic became involved with him.”

Her aunt gave a slow shake of her head. “It was sad, really. Of course, there is never a good reason to commit adultery. Richard Hamilton was one of those men who felt a woman’s place was at home, and she should never make any emotional demands on him. He left Vic alone too much. She was incredibly beautiful and caught the Duke’s eye. He flattered her, made her feel desirable, and the rest, as they say, is history. The Duke was really a thoroughly objectionable man, but charming nevertheless, and his title didn’t hurt his appeal.”

Growing up in Virginia, Grace understood. She had seen the same thing happen to marriages among her parents’ friends. “Did his father divorce her?”

“As a rule, nobility doesn’t divorce, pet. He just drank himself to death.

“Grey’s life has been an uphill battle for the last few years. Before you arrived in England, he sustained an injury to his leg when his ship was torpedoed. A terrible tragedy. So many lives lost.

“His fiancée apparently became afraid she would be stuck with a cripple, and looked for greener fields. It took almost a year for his leg to mend, and the Admiralty transferred him to somewhere in Intelligence.”

Grace stopped turning the pattern book pages and looked up at her aunt. “Commander Grey Hamilton is Lord Amherst?”

“Yes. Have you met him?”

Grace nodded. “Last night. He questioned me about Jacky’s murder.” The Commander’s past explained his coldness last evening. No wonder he held women in such low esteem. At least now she knew it wasn’t just her he disliked. It was women in general.

“Are you still writing, Aunt Edie? I haven’t seen you at your typewriter in a while.”

“No, love. My heart hasn’t been in it since the war began. I think my muse has moved to a war-free zone.”

Dinner that evening was a solemn affair. Despite rationing, Cook put together a good, if not elaborate, meal with vegetables from last summer’s victory garden, braised lamb chops, and a nice pudding with custard sauce.

Lady Victoria Amherst, who Aunt Edie called Vic, ate little and drank a lot. She was still a beautiful woman with a slim figure, dark hair and hazel eyes, her skin soft and unlined. Her movements and gestures were graceful and feminine, her voice soft and musical, though slurred.

Over coffee, Aunt Edie spoke in a stern voice to Lady Amherst. “You’re drinking too much, Vic. Liquor will not solve your problems. It just creates new ones.”

“I know, Edie, but sometimes . . . the ache . . . is so sharp I have to dull it with something.” She returned her cup to the saucer with a shaky hand. “I’ve made such a sorry mess of my life. My husband is dead . . . and my son hates me.”Grace felt she was eavesdropping on a private conversation between the two women, but thought it would be rude to get up and leave. Lady Amherst didn’t seem concerned about being overheard, almost as though she didn’t realize Grace was in the room.

“You’re feeling sorry for yourself, old girl.” Aunt Edie focused on her friend with her usual forthright manner. “That’s very selfish of you. You need to get involved in the war effort. Take in some of the children from the city. There’s something for everyone to do.”

“Amherst doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to Grey, and, as you know, he isn’t speaking to me.”

“Knowing Grey as I do, he won’t mind. Just ring him and tell him you’re going to do it. He can only say yes or no.”The woman’s eyes brightened for the first time that evening. “Do you really think I could do it, Edie? I would like that. Despite my poor relationship with my son, I’ve always been good with children.”

“Yes, I really think you could. Tomorrow we’ll see about making arrangements for your orphanage and my convalescence home.”

Betty entered the dining room as they were finishing after-dinner tea. “Miss Grace, there’s a gentleman at the door who says he’s here to take you to Bletchley Park.”

CHAPTER 3

Lady Amherst’s ApartmentLondon, England

Luftwaffe bombs kept Grey’s mother away from the city. Who could blame her for preferring to remain at Amherst near her friends? That was fine with Grey. He avoided his mother whenever possible. Watching his father drink himself to death because of her infidelity had left an ache that still burned after ten years.

He tossed off the bedcovers, made his way into the bath, and switched on the hot water tap. Frigid liquid flowed over his fingers. No doubt the gasworks had been damaged again by German bombs while he slept. It would take hours for the water to heat. He didn’t have hours to spare.

The apartment building was one of the few in London that had installed shower baths before the war began. He took the world’s fastest dip under the cold water—like bathing in the North Atlantic among icebergs.

He plunked a tea kettle on the kitchen gas ring to provide hot water for shaving. Carrying the steaming liquid into the bath, he filled the bowl. Still shivering from his cold shower, he dragged the straight razor down his face with an unsteady hand. Miraculously he didn’t nick himself.

As he shaved, his thoughts turned irrationally to Grace Sullivan. He didn’t have room for a woman in his life. He was often gone for months, he would have to keep secrets about his missions, and he was often in peril of losing his life. That wasn’t much to offer a woman. He’d planned to retire after he married Cynthia, but that was now out of the question. The obligation to his country had precedence over his personal life.

As he made the last drag of the cold steel down his chin, the doorbell sounded. He dropped the razor and mug in the bowl, snatched a towel from the rack, and wiped the soap from his face. He opened the door himself. The servant shortage had left the flat without staff.

His tall frame dressed in a brown Mackintosh and heavy wool scarf, his hat pulled low over his brow, Milford stepped past him without waiting to be invited. He stopped in the entryway and gave an appreciative glance around the drawing room, taking in the Regency furniture and Matisse artwork. “Nice. Your mum knows how to live well, doesn’t she? What have you got for a very late breakfast? I’m starved and the food at the pub is horrid. I’m never sure what I’m eating.”

“I went straight to bed when I came home last evening and haven’t checked the pantry. Help yourself while I dress.” He hurried into the bedroom and threw on layers of clothing to restore his circulation. Dressed, he joined Milford in the kitchen and found him in the midst of making toast and tea.

Milford grinned over his shoulder. “I found bread, margarine, and marmalade, which will do nicely. I would love to raid Miss Sullivan’s storehouse, but she has flown the coop, so to speak.”

“Really?” For some reason the thought that he might not see her again made Grey uneasy—a sense of loss. No reason for it, really. She had every right to leave. “Do you know where she went? Back to the Park?”

Milford shook his head. “No, she left word with the apartment management she was going to her aunts to finish out her leave. By the way, what is this leave business all about? Does Bletchley staff take leaves like the military?”

Still chilled, Grey leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “Not exactly. The cryptanalysts work in six sometimes seven-day shifts around the clock, and ungodly hours. They burn out quickly. Dennison gives them one week’s leave each quarter.”

“Small world. Edie is a good friend of my mother. I’ve known her since I was a tot.” Funny that Grace Sullivan was related to Edie, the only woman he had ever known who was exactly what she seemed to be; honest, loving, and kind. He’d often wished she had been his mother.

He grabbed cups and plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table while Milford brought the food. “Did you get a name for Old Foss from the manager?”

Milford chewed his toast and took a sip of tea before he answered. “Unfortunately, no. The rent was paid semi-annually and in cash, delivered by messenger. I have a man checking with the service now.”

The tea was hot and strong, just the way Grey liked it. Nothing worse than tepid tea. “Did you bring the interview cards with you?”

“I didn’t think it was necessary. I went through them early this morning. They didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. You can look at them yourself, if you like. However, I did bring a copy of the log and a list of the evidence we collected.” He passed a file to Grey.

“I may look at the cards later.” Grey opened the file. “What’s this list of people’s names?”

“It something I started a few years ago. I make a list of everyone who enters the crime scene. It saves going on a wild goose hunt, looking for a killer who smokes Woodbine fags when one of my constables dropped it at the scene.”“That’s a sterling idea, Aubrey. It should be adopted by every inspector at the Yard.”

“The wheels of progress turn slowly.” Aubrey refilled the tea cup he had just emptied. “Not to mention that new ideas threaten some of my superiors.”

Grey gave a knowing nod. “What do we have so far?”

“Two possible suspects; the lieutenant and the toff. Sounds like a cinema title, doesn’t it? Either of them could have used the service lift or the back stairs to enter the building without being seen. Motive theories would seem to be a lover’s quarrel or the spy angle. Either she wouldn’t divulge government secrets, or she did and was no longer needed. Let us pray it isn’t the latter.”

Grey drained the last dregs from his cup and pushed away from the table. The urgency of his mission pressed in on him. “I’m going back to Bletchley Park today to interview Vidal’s associates. Perhaps they can tell us more about our suspects. Would you care to come along?”

“Absolutely. I’m your shadow, old man, until this affair is settled. Those are my orders. I’ll have to get the chief inspector to sign a chit for the petrol. He’s very stingy, but considering the case’s importance it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Grey stacked the dirty dishes in the sink and grinned at Milford. “You’re rather handy in the kitchen. I hope your fiancée appreciates your talent.”

He laughed. “Penelope is not at all domestic. I shall have to prepare all our meals or attempt to hire a cook.”“When are the nuptials to take place?” Grey asked.

“In the summer at her parents’ country estate, away from the bombs. The Luftwaffe is not invited.”

***

The drive back to Buckinghamshire in Milford’s smart Riley Kestrel was considerably more comfortable than the drive into London earlier. The biggest improvement being that the heater worked marvelously in the small two-seater. Grey had been too tired last night to pay attention to Milford’s car. “How have you managed to keep this beauty in one piece with all the fallout?”

“By taking the crowded bus in to the Yard and storing it in their underground garage,” he said. “She is lovely, isn’t she?”

“None finer that I’ve seen in a long while,” Grey agreed. “How is the crime business these days?”

Milford retrieved a package of cigarettes from his inside pocket with one hand, tapped one out, and lit it before he answered. “Beastly.” He inhaled and blew out a stream of gray smoke. “Too many bodies to keep track of, with Jerry killing hundreds of civilians in their daily raids. Makes it too bloody easy for killers to conceal their crimes. They hide victims in with the other lot of civilian casualties, and most of the time we are none the wiser. Things have deteriorated so badly, men at the Yard call themselves ‘the deathwatch’. What about you? Do you enjoy all this cloak and dagger business?”

“I would rather be fighting this war in a ship at sea, but since that’s no longer possible MI6 is the next best thing. Although, it’s much more frightening being aware of what is happening behind the scenes, knowing the odds against us.”

“I understand. Lack of knowledge has its comforts. You were injured at Scapa Flow, weren’t you?”

“October ’39,” Grey said, the memory still all too vivid.

On October 14, he was scheduled to take command of the HMS Royal Oak and had just come on deck when a U-boat penetrated the port and sank the ship anchored there. The first torpedo struck the ship’s side and blew him into the water, unconscious. He was rescued by men from a nearby ship. A second torpedo blew a 30-foot hole in the Royal Oak, which flooded the ship and quickly capsized it. Of the 1,400-man crew, 833 were lost. Many nights he awoke tangled in sheets wet with sweat as the nightmare of that night returned.

“Has your leg mended?”

“For the most part. It only stiffens up in cold weather. I was one of the fortunate ones.”

Aubrey gave him a thoughtful glance. “Do you ever consider we might lose this war?”

“Constantly. Every time I see a report of the loss of our pilots and planes, I know how vulnerable we are. If Hitler had crossed the Channel after Dunkirk we couldn’t have stopped him. We were nowhere near ready to fend off the German horde. That’s when I knew there is a God in Heaven. Hitler didn’t press his advantage, and gave us time to shore up defenses along the coast.”

Silence fell between them; Milford switched on the radio, searching for a clear signal. Finally, he found the big band music of Artie Shaw’s “Stardust”, which drowned out the patter of drizzle-turned-sleet on the Riley’s roof.

The scenery outside the motorcar’s window was bleak but untouched by the blitzkrieg. He’d been away on assignment when The Park sustained its only hit. There had been minimal damage. They decided it must have been a Messerschmitt that wandered off-course and the pilot didn’t want to explain to Göring why his payload was intact.When the radio began a static crackle, Milford switched it off.

“What happens when we reach Bletchley Park?” Aubrey asked.

“First, I’ll introduce you to C. I must make my report, then we’ll round up all of Vidal’s co-workers and see what they can tell us.”

Milford shook out another cigarette and lit it. “Something I have always wanted to ask; why is the Director General of Military Intelligence called C?”

It was a question Grey had been asked many times. The MI6 chief’s name was Sir Stewart Menzies. Grey knew that, but not because anyone in MI6 had told him. He’d met the man socially while he was in the Royal Navy. Menzies was aware Grey knew his identity, but he also knew his agent would never reveal it to anyone.

Grey continued. “His name is classified, and he is referred to as C for obvious security reasons. As you might imagine, he would be a prime target for assassination. The initial has nothing to do with his real name.”

“Really? How strange.”

“Not when you know the history. The first head of MI6 was Sir George Mansfield Smith-Cumming, who was known simply as C. His initial has been used for every succeeding DG since.”

They arrived at the Mansion and after being cleared at the security gates, Milford pulled the Riley to the curb near the entrance. He shifted in the seat to look into Grey’s eyes. “Is finding this killer as important as everyone seems to think?”

“It couldn’t be more critical. If Miss Vidal gave information to her killer, and Germany learns we have captured the Enigma and Lorenz cyphers, they will change everything and the information will be worthless.” Grey let his gaze rest on the old mansion then glanced back at his friend. “England has three things going for it, my friend; Our radar, which is the best in the world. It tells us when the enemy is in range. Our cypher data tells us where the Nazis are headed, and finally the courage of our military and our people. If we lose any one of the three, Hitler may very well win this war.”

Bletchley Park MansionBuckinghamshire, England

Inside the impressive mansion’s marble floors and mahogany walls, Grey led Milford to the top floor and introduced him to his superior, then let C’s assistant show Milford around while the Director General and Grey had a private chat.The DG was in his early fifties, always impeccably dressed, shirt immaculate, tie straight, and shoes shined to a bright sheen; a hold-over from his military career. His silver hair was worn short with a receding hairline and white mustache. He was slight of build, four inches shorter than Grey, with intelligent blue eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. The DG was one of the few people Grey trusted implicitly.

Grey passed C his report. “This is all we know at present, sir. Milford and I plan to interview Vidal’s team members and see if we can get a lead on the two suspects. Did you find our RAF lieutenant?”

“In a manner of speaking.” C took a deep draw on his long-stemmed pipe. “There is no Lieutenant Geoffrey Whitman in the RAF.”

The revelation came as a surprise to Grey. “That’s not good news. It would appear we have a spy posing as an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force.”

“That would be my guess,” C said. “It could also be some chap decked out in uniform trying to impress the ladies, but I’m leaning toward the former.”

“This makes our job somewhat more difficult. We now have two unidentified suspects. Miss Sullivan gave us a good description of Old Foss, but we’ll need to ask her and the lift operator for a profile on the lieutenant.”

“Speaking of Miss Sullivan, I’ve asked Dennison to assign her to you, along with Inspector Milford to assist in the investigation. He cancelled her leave. She arrives this afternoon.”

Disconcerted and more than a little put-out, Grey almost rose from his chair. “Why on earth for? She’s a cryptanalyst, not an investigator.”

“Three reasons, actually,” the DG said. “She scored higher than anyone ever tested in solving puzzles. Her IQ is 210, which places her solidly at the top of the genius class. Dennison was astonished. She also knew the victim very well and may recall something important. Also, and most importantly, I received a call from Nigel Lewis in London just before you arrived. Tilly Crocker, the lift operator in the apartment building, was found strangled this morning. Our Miss Sullivan will be safer in your charge.”

The friendly face of the elevator operator flashed into Grey’s mind. There was too much death in this bloody war. Tilly’s was unnecessary, and therefore more tragic. “Wouldn’t Miss Sullivan be more secure here, sir? The place is well guarded. Only those with top security clearance get through the gate.”

“You’re assuming a killer or spy hasn’t somehow infiltrated Bletchley Park. That is of great concern to me since Miss Vidal’s death.”

The DG was right, of course. Grace Sullivan and Tilly were the only two people who could identify Jacky Vidal’s two suitors. But he was still steamed. She would be much better off here than having him and Milford nanny her around London. Besides, solving a crime was not exactly the same as excelling at crossword puzzles.

The assistant had timed Milford’s tour to end just as Grey exited the DG’s office. Grey shook C’s hand, then stomped towards the stairwell.

Milford caught up with him at the landing. “What’s wrong, old man? Steam is practically seeping from your ears.”Grey stopped, turned away, then back to Milford. “The DG just added a new colleague to our investigation team.”“I always say the more the merrier. Three heads are better than two, as they say. Who is our new member?”“Miss Sullivan. Let’s find some coffee. I have more bad news for you.”

Later, they rounded up the few people who worked closely with Vidal. One important lead came out of the meetings. A young lady thought Old Foss worked in the government, but she didn’t know where.

At least it was a place to begin.

***

Commander Dennison sent the car to Moorhead Manor to bring Grace back to the Park. The driver had been vague and Grace wondered if something big was in the wind. Leaves were cherished and seldom, if ever, cancelled.She welcomed the opportunity to get back to work. The distraction was sorely needed. At the Mansion, one never had time for personal problems.

Jacky’s death still haunted her. The realization that she was gone forever was like an open wound. The last sight of her friend’s body had replaced all the good memories—her laughter and love of life, her gift for comedy, and sly wit that made her popular with everyone.

A frigid wind cut through her thick wool coat when she walked up the steps to the mansion. She checked in, then went directly to Hut 3 to tell Turing she had been reassigned. The demand for more and more cryptanalysts had forced the War Office to build a number of huts separate from the mansion to house the various projects.

Turing wasn’t happy, but managed to take the news with grace. After leaving his office, she had twenty minutes to spare before reporting to Commander Dennison. She used the time to clear away her desk, and let her roommate at the Park know she was leaving indefinitely.

Dennison met her outside his office with two cups of tea in hand. “Ah, Grace, it’s good to see you. We haven’t had a chat for some time. How is that lovely aunt of yours?” He stood beside the open door for her to enter first.

The Commander was in his sixties, with close-cropped grey hair and beard. She was surprised to see he didn’t look well, although she’d heard he was scheduled for surgery soon. “She’s fine, sir, and thank you for asking.”

He handed her one of the mugs and sat behind his desk. “I’ll make this short, Grace. You will report to Commander Grey Hamilton upstairs at MI6 when you leave here. He’ll explain your new duties.”

“Commander Hamilton? Are you sure, sir?” She would bet a month’s salary her new job had not been Commander Hamilton’s idea.

“Quite sure,” he said. “The assignment came from his superior, as I understand it.”

They spent a few minutes in small talk while she finished her tea then she rose to take her leave, suppressing a grin. Grey Hamilton would not be pleased at this turn of events. And she wasn’t exactly happy about the assignment.Dennison set his empty cup on a trolley near his desk. “The Commander and Inspector Milford are waiting in his office. Afterwards, I expect you will return to London with them.”

“Do you have any idea what my assignment will be, sir?”

“None at all, I’m afraid. But I’m sure he will fill you in shortly.”

As she made her way down the corridor, the change in her duties niggled at the back of her mind. She assumed she was to be involved in the investigation of Jacky’s murder, but she had no idea why. She wasn’t a detective and had no desire to become one. Not to mention working with the irascible Commander would be no walk in the park.After asking directions from one of the guards, she found herself before a finely carved oak door and was reminded this had once been a stately home.

She gave a sharp rap on the lintel and a voice she recognized invited her in. “You wanted to see me, Commander?”

“Yes, Miss Sullivan. Please have a seat. I’m glad you came so promptly.” The grim set of his jaw said otherwise.

She took the chair next to Inspector Milford who gave her a friendly smile, and then she addressed the Commander. “I was told to report to you, sir, for my new assignment.”

“Right, I think we can use your skills for research while the Vidal investigation is ongoing. You can work from your apartment in London. It should be a nice holiday for you, considering the stress and hours you work here.”

Heat rushed through her as his plan became clear. He intended to stick her in the apartment and go about his business. And that simply wasn’t going to happen.

She rose from the chair, planted both hands on his desk and leaned as close to him as she could get, her face hot with anger. “Whether you realize it or not, Commander, the work I do here is one of the most important jobs in this horrible war. We’ve broken the Luftwaffe’s code and the information we pass on to Military Intelligence helps keep those boys out there,” she waved her arm toward the window. “And I do mean boys, alive. They fight battles every day in second-hand planes against an enemy with the finest aircrafts in the world. They need every edge we can give them. Even under these conditions, the RAF is winning, downing five planes to their one. We play a small part in that victory.”

The back of her eyes burned with angry tears, but she forged on. “We’re working around the clock on the German naval codes. You have heard of a little battleship called the Bismarck, haven’t you? She and her sister are trying to break out into the North Atlantic, and God help our navy if she succeeds.

“I will not be set aside for your busy work. You can get a WPC to do your bloody research and I will return to my job where I’m truly needed. Are we clear on that, Commander?”

“As my mother’s Waterford,” he said. His face darkened as he shoved his chair back and stood, towering over her. “I’m well aware of the job done here and the casualties out there. I see the numbers every day. My country is tottering on the brink of disaster while you Americans twiddle your thumbs trying to decide whether to stand up to Hitler. Are all American women as . . .? Forgive me, I’m looking for the right word.”

“Blunt, direct, frank, honest? The answer is yes, when it’s called for.” She turned to leave and stopped at the door. “I’ll meet you for breakfast downstairs at 7:30 tomorrow morning. You can let me know then if I’m to be an active member of this investigation or not.”

“Make that 6:30, Miss Sullivan. I’m an early riser.”

***

Grey listened to the angry click of her heels as they faded down the hallway. He glanced over at Milford, who gave a solemn shrug.

“She’s right, old man,” he said after a long draw from the ever-present cigarette. “There are more important demands for her time and talents than doing your research, or sitting on her duff waiting for instructions that you have no intention of giving her.”

Grey stared silently at his friend for a moment then ran his hands down his face. “Of course, she is.” He sank heavily back into his chair and gazed out the window at the dark sky threatening more snow and sleet. “And in the process she made me feel like a selfish, arrogant ass.”

“That about sums it up,” Milford said. He pulled down his overcoat and Trillby from the coat rack. “As my car is only a two-seater, I’m returning to London. I need the details on poor Tilly’s death.” He shrugged into his coat and stuck the hat securely on his head. “A sad business that. She was a nice girl.” He wagged his head slowly. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

He got halfway to the door and turned back. “By the way, why didn’t you tell Miss Sullivan about Tilly?”

“It didn’t seem the proper time while she was dressing me down. I’ll tell her tomorrow on the train back to London. Her sudden visit to her aunt may have saved her life. Can you have someone pick us up at Kings Cross?”

“Of course, I’ll have one of the WPCs give you a lift. Where shall we meet?”

“At my mother’s flat. If the Vidal apartment is ready for lease, I’ll move in next to Miss Sullivan . . . at least until we find our killer.”